Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (7 page)

Through it all, she had never dreamed that today she would be a
guest in the house of the very man against whom she plotted. Nor that
his relations would be so kind to her. She told herself defiantly that
her revenge had been well justified. She had suffered a twinge of
anxiety just now when Ridgley said her brother was a stockholder, not
merely a victim of Damon's smooth-tongued chicanery. But from the
moment of her arrival, the erratic behaviour of the Marquis had branded
him a Creature; and one whose unscrupulous cunning would eventually
have duped her gentle and trusting brother out of every last sou,
stockholder or not! Despite these reflections, she was shaken, and
recovered her composure only when the servants left the room, and
Feather changed the subject, making a pointed remark about Genevieve's
reputation.

"I have not the smallest notion of what you speak," said that young lady, albeit shooting a guilty glance at her cousin.

"Well, I have,
mon petit chou
," said Damon sternly. "You
left a trail of broken hearts all across Europe!" Ignoring Genevieve's
prompt but rather wistful denial, he asked, "Has she been at it again,
Feather?"

"I doubt there's a whole male heart left in Devonshire," affirmed Lady Branden, "Including that of your old friend, Hartwell."

Sophia caught her breath, and her hand tightened convulsively on her
spoon. Hartwell? Amory had never mentioned that he knew the Marquis.

Damon was leaning forward eagerly. "I was not aware he is in Devon."

"I doubt he is," said Miss Hilby, her tone chill, "if he has learned of our departure."

"Gad!" The Marquis settled back in his chair, smiling reminiscently. "Haven't seen Amory since…" He checked abruptly.

"Since that nasty business in Town," the Earl finished. "Very close
shave, that. Did you hear—" He stopped with a gasp and glared at Damon
indignantly.

"Hear what?" demanded Lady Branden.

Damon's face was a suave mask. "You were speaking of Hartwell, dear lady."

She continued to regard him suspiciously. "What's all this about nasty—"

The Marquis glanced to Miss Hilby. "Oh, Feather," she intervened,
"let's not speak of that sordid business. It was horrid, and Lady
Sophia looks tired."

Startled, Sophia protested, "No, but really, I am not."

'"Course the child's tired." Lady Branden slammed down her
serviette. "After the day she's had and worried about her brother!
Ladies, shall we leave?"

The ladies stood, the gentlemen pulling back their chairs and
promising to join them very shortly. Clay ushered them to the door, and
Thompson began to remove the covers. The Earl leaned closer to Damon
and grumbled softly, "That hurt, if you must know, Cam. Caught me right
on the blasted shin bone!"

"Apologise. But we don't want Feather nosing about, do we, Ted?"

Ridgley paled. "Gad! You're right, of course. She'd be here forever!"

As the last notes of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusick" died away, there was
a moment of quiet in the music room. Sophia was deeply moved, as music
had the power to move her. The Marquis of Damon played magnificently.
She joined the enthusiastic applause, the men rose to their feet, and
Genevieve ran to embrace her cousin.

Feather, seated beside Sophia, fumbled for her handkerchief and
dragged it fiercely across her eyes. "Wretch!" she growled. "He plays
so divinely, and weeping women always make me want to cast up my
accounts!"

Struggling against a laugh, Sophia said, "Then he should never play."

"God forbid! I look forward for weeks to the time I can hear him—and weep. Silly great creature that I am!"

"Let's have something else!" cried Ridgley eagerly.

"It grows late, and you've all had tiring journeys." Damon shot a
mischievous glance at Sophia and added "And other— wearing experiences."

Sophia contrived to maintain a look of complete unawareness.

"Besides,"—Miss Hilby nodded—"you must be up early, Camille, in case his grace arrives."

Damon gasped, and the Earl stared at the beauty as though her copper curls had become writhing adders.

"Your… your pardon, Charlotte?" Damon stammered.

"You expect your Papa, do you not? In London, the Duke told me
distinctly he would visit you within the month. I rather gathered it
would be this week."

Sophia and Clay exchanged tense glances.

Damon took a deep breath and said, "I hope not—since the bridge is out."

"But your working men will have it newly made by tomorrow, you say—no?" asked Genevieve.

"Perhaps, my lord," murmured Sophia innocently, "your Papa could stay with us at 'The Gold Crown'?"

"What?" Feather exploded. "You're never throwing us out, Damon?"

"Not tonight, of course, dear ma'am." His face betrayed only
affection. "But longer, I am persuaded, would be unendurable for you.
The workmen are here from dawn to dusk, you see, for we are renovating
one room at a time. And—"

"And are no sooner opening the door to us than you wish us gone—is
that it?" The eyes of the formidable Feather were angry, yet also held
hurt.

Damon spread his beautifully expressive hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Of course, it is not, Feather." Miss Hilby clasped one of those
outstretched hands. "Stop scolding him so! He'll not banish us from his
gloomy—and now isolated—old dungeon. Will you, Camille?"

A long look passed between the two. It was a romance beyond
doubting, thought Sophia. But surely the lady was too old for him.
'Five and thirty if she's a day.' Still, she was certainly lovely
enough to follow in the wake of his beautiful French mistress, and—
They were all smiling at her. "Oh! Your pardon!" she gasped. "I was
woolgathering. How terribly rude of me!"

"Not at all, m'dear," said Feather kindly. "I was only telling my
fiendish nephew he cannot heave us all out of his ruins since it would
be improper for you to be without a chaperone while you await your
brother's arrival."

"But, dearest of Aunts," said Damon, "Whitthurst is an invalid, and
the Priory's swarming with noisy workmen all day! Not salubrious, you
see."

"Then stop 'em!" rasped Feather. "The Priory's been mouldering for
centuries. Won't collapse if it has to wait a few days to get its face
lifted."

"Whitt must be improving," Ridgley put in absently, "if he can
survive riding all this way through a howling storm. Surprising. Felt
certain he was going to turn up his toes, but—" He stopped as Feather
dug an elbow into his ribs.

"Clumsy oaf!" she scolded. "Sophia's worried to death for the boy."

"He is not a boy," Damon corrected sharply, "but a courageous
fighting man who was well aware of the risks when he undertook to serve
his country."

Sophia was shocked by such blatant hypocrisy. Mistaking the reason
for her pallor, Ridgley patted her hand. "Sorry, m'dear. Ain't the soul
of tact, am I? But Cam's right, y'know. Whitthurst acquitted himself
very well."

"He did, indeed!" Unable to restrain herself, she said ringingly,
"And I am excessively proud of him. And of those other gallant
gentlemen willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of—those of us
who stayed at home." Fully aware that Miss Hilby had frowned at these
words and that the Marquis was very still, she swept on. "Where would
England be, I wonder, without such selfless dedication?" And seeing
Clay's stunned expression, she could have cut out her tongue.

The Marquis raised his glass in salute and with his cynical grin murmured, "Where, indeed?"

Despite the fact that she was bone weary, sleep was long in coming
to Sophia that night. As soon as she turned down the wick on the oil
lamp, she was wide awake and lay there, her feet cuddling the hot
brick, her brain whirling. It had been so odd to undress and prepare
for bed without Meg and Miss Jarrett to aid her. They were more like
family than maids, and she missed them as much for their companionship
as for their services. They had been with her since she left the
schoolroom, had both accompanied her to Italy, and been pillars of
support through the nightmarish fiasco of her homecoming.

Her first intimation that anything was amiss had been a letter from
Mama saying that she had accepted an invitation to accompany friends to
India. She had long wished to visit her favourite brother who was
stationed in Darjeeling, and she hoped, she said, that her health might
benefit by the avoidance of an English winter. It had sounded logical,
yet the decision seemed to have been reached in such haste, and there
was little mention of Whitthurst. Trying not to worry, Sophia had at
once written to her brother, but receiving no answer had despatched an
urgent enquiry to her Uncle George in Hampshire. His reply had been
long in coming and couched in such vague terms that her anxiety had
increased and she had sailed for England on June 22, only four days
after the Battle of Waterloo.

Her housekeeper, Hettie Adams, had run out to meet her on the
terrace of her loved Singlebirch. Sophia had been kissed, wept over,
drawn inside, and there told the shattering news that the Viscount had
joined a crack hussar regiment three months earlier. Her Mama had
refused to impart this information for fear she would feel duty bound
to terminate her happy stay in Italy and come home. Still struggling to
absorb these facts, she had been ill prepared for the shock of learning
that the Viscount had fought in the great battle and even now lay
severely wounded in his room. She would never know how she had
concealed her heartbreak when she first saw the dashing half-brother
she had grown up worshipping. The loss of his right arm at the elbow
had been a bitter blow to the athletic young man, but he'd borne it
bravely and, had greeted her with a loving, though weak, smile and a
show of spirit that had inspired her to fight tears away and attempt to
emulate his own courage.

In the days that followed, he had seemed to improve. A week later,
however, an infection had set in, necessitating a more severe
amputation. It had been a ghastly experience, both physically and
mentally. Whitthurst, already weakened, had lost heart, and Sophia had
been faced with a full-scale battle for his life. She had waged it
well, and now he was much improved. He was certainly not hardy enough,
however, to go jauntering about all over the countryside in inclement
weather. That he had even essayed the journey was surprising. His long
and painful illness had taken much of his spirit. He always had a
cheery word for her, but too often she would find him staring into
space with a sad emptiness in his eyes. His boundless energy was gone,
and he seemed to lack all desire to return, however gradually, into the
society he had once so loved.

Sophia thought wistfully of their earlier years. Such happy years…
Mama, joyful and proud of the children she adored;Papa, always good
natured; Stephen, brimming with vitality, constantly involved in some
madcap scheme and as constantly in hot water. During his Oxford years,
she had railed at him for his wildness, but he'd continued on his merry
way, ever the Corinthian. When his studies were over, they had ridden
together, hunted together, partied together. Steve had been amused by
her devastating effect upon his friends, proud of her popularity, but
horrified by her brief, early marriage. And then dear Papa had died
very suddenly, and Stephen had become the head of the family. The
Peninsula campaign had been raging in full fury, and, longing to go, he
had promised his grieving stepmother he would not do so. A year later,
Signor Bertolini had made Sophia his dazzling offer to join his family
in Italy for further studies. It had been Stephen who, knowing how
desperately she wanted to go, had ridden roughshod over her doubts and
practically carried her onto the packet. She could see him still,
standing on the dock, waving. Tall and strong and handsome. Her eyes
blurred with painful tears. He would never wave that arm again.

The Marquis, his powerful hands about her throat, was forcing her
back over the steps in the catacombs, toward those hideous broken
railings below… A series of crashing discords woke her. Starting bolt
upright, her heart pounding frenziedly, she stared at the faint glow
surrounding the curtains. That was not Damon playing! Whatever else,
the Marquis was a musician par excellence. She winced before another
onslaught, turned up the wick of the lamp, and looked to the ormolu
clock on the mantle. Half past two o'clock! It occurred to her suddenly
that Horatio must be stamping about on the keyboard. But with a house
full of company, why did no one attempt to stop the wretched bird?
Pulling the pillow over her head, she lay there, seething with rage.
She began to contemplate various ways of dealing with the feathered
musician. They progressed in violence until, as time ticked past, there
was nothing for it but to slaughter the monster!

She gave a sigh of relief as the bizarre concert ceased, but just as
she was dropping into an exhausted slumber, another crashing chord sent
her heart leaping into her throat. It was the outside of enough!

Two minutes later, burning with fury despite the frigid atmosphere,
she marched along the hall, candle in one hand, poker in the other, her
dressing gown buttoned up tightly, a cap neatly arranged over her hair.
All was still...And suddenly she knew why. The music room was directly
below her! And her bedchamber undoubtedly shared the same chimney! That
Machiavellian housekeeper had known her master allowed his sadistic pet
to dance on the harpsichord in the small hours of the morning!
Disregarding the fact that it had been her own insistence that had
resulted in her occupation of the bedchamber, Sophia hastened on, the
trumpets of war soundlessly blaring her advance, murder in her heart.

Throwing open the door to the music room, she swept in, poker held
high, prepared to separate one goose from his musical aspirations.